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Life is simpler in Blogland

And tonight someone asked me for my address to send a cheque. The address that, with my name, is on the booking form that I emailed out 5 weeks ago and again yesterday. Honestly, darlings, one needs a bit of patience. Though I don’t get too fussed, usually.

I received a compliment this afternoon actually, from someone to whom I described the approximate form of the presentation I’m giving on Saturday (still haven’t got it done). She asked me what my job had been, evidently thinking that I used to do this sort of thing. I confessed that I’ve never had a proper job and I’m not trained for anything. Well, I say confessed, but it’s nothing I’m bothered about. As long as I’m not paid, I have nothing to prove. I do my best and if it’s not enough, I don’t mind being told. Anyway, she was surprised, which surprises me somewhat, as I very much admire her abilities – she can do what I can’t, effortlessly. I just bluff well.

Things seem to be going a bit awry this evening, after a good day. I’ve had a really quite snotty email – dictated to her husband, apparently – saying that she doesn’t see why she should have the burden of sending me a lecture report form. Okay, fine, I don’t mind – why does she feel the need to be rude to me about it? I have the feeling that she thinks I’m paid for this job (and, as I’m an underling, she’s entitled to be high-handed). In my mild-mannered reply, I’ve mentioned that I’m a volunteer too.

Also, I’ve had an email from Bod, Wink’s fellow. They would like me to go on holiday with them in November, and Bod has been enthusiastically making arrangements. A couple of days ago, I reminded him that we’ve got an auction on the last Friday in October and I’ve got work to do after that, so if he wanted to leave that weekend, I needed to see if I could fit in. He seems to have said that he’s booked a flight from Gatwick, leaving before noon on Sunday 31st. I can’t possibly do that. Sunday train services are dreadful from here to London and one is always bussed part of the way. Then I’d have to get across London and over to Gatwick, by about 9.30. Did I mention on a Sunday? I very clearly said a couple of days ago, let me know the arrangements and if I couldn’t fit in, I’d say so. If he’s booked, I won’t be pleased.

Anyway, I had been feeling all cheery and relaxed. I’m not, quite so much, now.

Get across London? To Gatwick? As a long-term London-dweller, it has always enraged me the way Gatwick mis-sells itself as being a London airport. It is nowhere near London, and never has been. Even Heathrow is pushing it a bit to call itself a London airport, but it’s a good sight nearer than Gatwick. I can’t believe the people of Britain have stood for it, frankly.

I’ve had a succession of emails telling me that the writers have been horribly busy but they’ll put my request to the top of the pile. 6 weeks ago, I gave them a 5 week deadline. And now this woman grumbles about having to do a ten minute job -so she wants to send me the form so that I can do it for her. I’ve never met her but I dislike her already. Another lady wrote apologetically saying she had tried and failed. I was happy to offer to do it for her.

It’s not the people of Britain, Dand, who know where Heathrow, Gatwick, Luton and Stansted (all London airports) are. It’s the unfortunate foreigners who arrive to discover they have still got a long journey before arriving at their hotel. And then they find out how expensive the Heathrow Express is and how long it takes. You should see their faces.

Simon, the journey there and back can wipe out the pleasure of a holiday. And I said specifically in my last email that I may not be able to fit in with his plan.

I think you’re the politest and most cleanly-spoken and level-headed blogger I know (with the obvious exception of Mr Scurra) and many of us bask in the warmth of your credit. People who stand on their high horses merely get spattered with mud. Can you do something about my back?

I’ve had an embarrassed phone call of apology from the lady this morning, it seems her husband rather over-emphasised what she meant to say. So I’ve been ever so nice to her in return and now we’re the best of friends.

Still waiting for matters to be resolved with Bod. Wink and I have spent a few minutes this morning in analysis of his good and bad points.

I wish I could help your back, it’s so exhausting when you can’t sit or lie comfortably and you’re in constant pain.

Vicus is a shining example to us all. I cannot hope to rise to his level so don’t even try.

Last weekend I was talking to a lady who’s been a cub leader for 35 years. She’s giving up because she is sick of everyone’s attitude to her – they seem to overlook the fact that she is completely unpaid, adn even pays for her training, and often materials etc out of her own pocket. The Big Society? Thing of the past… got lost somewhere, int he pursuit of ‘money’ and ‘human rights’.

I do admire the way you carry on with all your voluntary roles. I’ve dropped amost all of mine now. I feel much happier… but I keep getting asked when I’m going back onto whatever committee, or being told that they ‘need’ me… Nah. For once in my life I’m enjoying being a ‘provided for’ not a ‘doer’.

The Unobservant Eye of Z

Dramatis personae:
My husband, Lovely Tim or LT for short (though he is actually tall).
My late husband, the Sage, aka Russell.
My children: Dearest daughter Weeza, who has London Ways, is married to Phil. Their daughter is Zerlina Buttercup and their son is Augustus Bufo. Elder son - Al X, is married to Dilly. Their children are Squiffany Virgilia, Maximus Pugsley and Hadrian Swallow. Younger son - Ro married to Dora and their two-year-old is Rufus Russell.
Big Sister: Wink. She lives in Wiltshire, 230 miles away, but we're much closer than that.
We live with our cat Eloise, a black tortoiseshell half-Ragdoll.
Bantams live in the garden and cats live in the barns but we feed them and they have ambitions to be pets too. In addition, cows come to visit in the summer. Mostly, they stay in the fields. None of them has got a hoof in the door yet.
There is an annexe to the house, where Roses lives and her beloved, Lawrence, spends a lot of time there. Her son, Boy, lives there too.

Z’s blogroll

Updating takes too much memory, sorry - but then I'm not very young any more, so am hanging on to the memory I've got. Please don't look for any significance in the order - I'm not drunk but I am disorderly.

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Oh, what's the problem? This is hardly Great Literature. I'd appreciate anything taken from here being acknowledged, and I might change my mind if I'm suddenly proclaimed as the Literary Queen of the Blogosphere - but I probably wouldn't. Do what you like, just as long as it doesn't extend to defamation of anyone, even me.

Actually, you want to pass off what I say as your own, I might even be flattered. Let's face it, who cares anyway?